


Blaspheme

by HowNecromantic



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dark Romance, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Non-Chronological, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23488261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowNecromantic/pseuds/HowNecromantic
Summary: Memories remain firmly in her mind, eyes ever averted from which the phantasms that haunt her. She keeps her head high and proud with a mask firmly in place, yet how she finds it to slip away when she's around the Morningstar himself.Fascinations and obsessions, dangerous ambitions twist and tangle like vines, bringing the two closer together in their garden.-------------------A non-chronological collection of fics.
Relationships: Lucifer/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Blaspheme

**Author's Note:**

> Reader-insert version, if that's more of your style, is available over on Quotev. 
> 
> https://www.quotev.com/story/12587275/Blaspheme-YandereLucifer-x-femReader

_**“…is it suffering or goodness that makes them holy, or can anyone tell the difference?”** _

_**Margaret Atwood, “The Saints”** _

_ “Don’t you let no devil get you, Annie. You ever see that bastard, you best turn tail and run like no tomorrow. And don’t you stop running, no, no. When you stop, that’s when he gets ya. That’s how he got your ma, Annie. She stopped runnin’.”  _

From behind the screen door does Lucrezia peer, scarlet eyes scanning the treeline, catching on any lingering shadow and branching limb. Moments pass in silence before the door finally creaks open and the young woman slips out, quietly closing the door behind her. Once more, her eyes shift across the scene, confirming that yes, she is alone. Quietly, she makes her way down the old wooden steps and onto the path that leads her between the trees.

There’s hardly a breeze, with nothing to cool this warm summer night, but that doesn’t bother her any. After twenty-two years of living in this backwoods town in the heart of the Delta, where hellfire is preached and brimstone threatened, she’s long since become accustomed to the heat. 

_ “The devil himself is after your souls, brothers and sisters! He can smell your fear and he knows, Lord, does he know that faith is weak in these times.” Preacher Les grips his pulpit between wrinkly white-knuckled hands as he delivers his sermon, voice trembling with the mighty righteousness of a man chosen by God himself. “He sees all this sinnin’, and he rejoices! He’s dancin’ on his cloven feet, absolutely giddy that humanity is no longer lookin’ to the big man upstairs, but instead to the drinkin’ and gamblin’, to their vices instead of doing what they should be doing. And what is that, my brothers and sisters? Why, prayer!” _

Pray. 

How often did her papa and this town did pray. Pray, pray, pray. Pray, so that they may be forgiven. Pray, so that they may be pure. Pray, so that they won’t ever come to face the devil. Pray, so that whenever temptation weakens them and their faith, that they can be resolute again and face the new day with a righteousness that places them high in the world, holy and pure. 

Delicate features remain relaxed, her countenance ever calm, a finely crafted mask she’s refined over the years. Though to say if it’s just a mask anymore, she’s not wont say, but the fire in her eyes is unmissable, burning with resolution of a woman who has made her decision and there’s nothing, be it hell or highwater, that will stop her. 

The dirt of the forest path stains her bare feet, a reminder that she is not so high as the people in this town. No, she and her mama never were, and never will be. She is a sinner, and she accepts this without hesitation. She knows that no amount of praying to the good Lord will ever change who she is. After all, is it not human nature to sin? Even the saints have sinned themselves, yet they have their place in the sun. 

_ Her father’s breath is heavy with sin, whiskey slurring his words and blurring his thoughts together. He sets his glass upon the table with such a loud thud, ice clinking about inside. “Don’t…,” he starts and Annabelle already knows what he’s going to say. He always gets like this when he drinks. Then again, when isn’t he drinking nowadays? _

_ “Don’t,” he starts again, hollowing gaze settling upon the glass before him as he reaches for the half-empty bottle of Jack with a shaky hand, “don’t let the devil get ya, Annie. Don’t you go lettin’ him do that.” _

_ “Yes, papa,” she responds, ever a dutiful child, just as the Lord commands. Just as her father needs. Just as her mother needed. She sits beside him, hands in her lap while she watches him with sorrowful eyes as he lifts the now-full glass to his lips, a pitiful sight she’ll never get used to.  _

__

_ A silence lingers between the pair, with only the sounds of his drinking to fill the air. He’s a good man, she thinks, just given to his vices. Yes, that’s all. They still have food, a home, and he doesn’t ever hurt her. He’s a good father, and that’s all she could really ask of him.  _

_ “Annie…” _

_ Was that her father? Her mother? Voices feminine and masculine layer over each other, harsh and wispy, her name a horrible sound in her ears.  _

_ You’re a ̸̨̢̫͔̥̱̽͘g̴̨̖̥͙͙̮͍͚̋̒͋̔ỡ̶̭o̶̰͕͔̟̜̱̘̜̰͑̍̿̑̃̕d̶̡̳͘ ̷̢͖̟̘̱̯̬̣͆ daughter _

_ ̵͇̥̟̖͖̜̘̊͆͊̈͜ ̴̧̩̺͎͍̥̙̼͐̏̈́̂͗͆͝ḧ̵̳͚̟̣̰̟̜̼̅͝ͅo̴͍͈̠̒ŗ̴͎̗̝̼̝̗͖͊̂̒̈́̒͜ȑ̶̙͎̃̊ǐ̸̛̺̮̪̦̤̼̈́̍̐̉̚ͅb̸̙̼̝̺͕̞̘̔͐́͝l̸̡̘͓̙̹͒͐͂͒̓̄̀͝e̵̪̳͊̈́̒͗͠͝ _

There is no cicada-song tonight. An ill-omen, many would deem it, as rarely is the forest this quiet in the summer. No crickets, no cicadas, no lightning bugs - there is no sign or sound of life, but that of a young woman with a lighter in hand and eyes of scarlet fire. Serpentine, she moves with purpose, yet not without the grace her mother instilled in her when she was a child as she weaves through the trees. 

Lucrezia’s mother… She was a beautiful woman who wanted so much more for Lucrezia than this bodunk town. She’s seen the world and knew that there is more than anyone here is willing to see. In this town of weeds, she was a flower, beautiful and vibrant, so full of life. Yet, weeds will do as weeds do, and so her mother wilted, choked and starved of life, losing her vibrance. This town fancies itself to be Eden, in spite of its creeping vines and rampant weeds, with nary a blooming flower in sight. 

“Annie…”

Lucrezia presses on, lighter in hand, ignoring the call of her name. She refuses to let herself be overrun by the weeds, to let the vines creep around her, to let herself be choked out by this town. She isn’t her mama. She isn’t her papa. She isn’t Annabelle Caroline Meilyr. She is Lucrezia, and she’s going to face the devil himself tonight.

She won’t run or hide from him anymore, because no matter how hard she tries, he will catch her, just like how he caught everyone else in this forsaken town. So, she’ll stand her ground and face him, and see what hellfire and brimstone is really like. Thus, she’ll carry on her march, unaware of the distant presence that trails her. 

_ Between overgrown hedges and brambles does Lucrezia find herself, surrounded by roses of the deepest red. She takes a tentative step forward, taking care to not get herself snagged by thorns. She’s been here before, though to say she is familiar would not be wholly true. To say where she knows where she is would not be wholly true either, but she can say that she’s been here before. _

_ The lace of her white night slip slides across her thighs as she wanders through the garden, pale gooseflesh illuminated beneath the silvery light of the moon. Her lips fix into a firm line, and eyes set straight forward, fixed upon the distant great tree that lies ahead. She maintains her posture, with head held high in an attempt to mask the unease that shows in her careful steps and prickling flesh.  _

_ She moves like a ghost, graceful and light, all white with only reddened lips to show that blood still flows within her veins. She is mortal still, but mortality can easily be taken from her, especially within this garden, where life appears to be draining away.  _

_ Lucrezia hears the rustling of browned leaves and the shifting of branches, bringing her to an abrupt halt. Scarlet eyes cut across the scenery to look behind her, but she sees nothing, hears nothing. She presses her lips tighter together, brows furrowing in frustration. It couldn’t have been her, no - it was further away and she certainly didn’t touch any of the flora. Surely, it had to be something or someone else, a thought that doesn’t please her in the least.  _

_ Maybe it was her mind, given as it is to playing tricks on her. That thought pleases her even less, somehow, and she sets herself back straight and facing forward. She lingers for a second longer, awaiting any further sounds before she finally sets off once more. _

She stands unsteadily before the old church, eyes screwing shut with fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Her brows twitch, knitting tightly together as she tries to ward off the dizziness that fell over her. Her eyes blink open, blurry, and she steadies her breathing, hoping that the world will soon follow suit and steady itself. 

Slowly, the world seems to clear, with defiant eyes fixing upon the wooden cross of the old church as it comes into view. Lucrezia’s hand falls back to her side, her posture righting itself from its wavering stance. 

She stands before the old church, posture defiant as she holds her head high, gazing upon the wooden cross hanging above the door with fire in her eyes. How many years she spent here, sitting upon its pews between her mother and father, with reverent amens and voices lifted in holy chorus. Fire and brimstone sermons every sunday, speaking of Jezebels and sodomites, of end times and rapture, how they filled her ears every week. There is no love, but only fear. 

Lucrezia can’t help but wonder that if it wasn’t for her mother, would she be like the others in this wretched town? Would she have given in to those fiery sermons, and calling people like her mother Jezebels? Her mother isn’t from this town, having come from a city in the northeast. Her parents met while her father was in the military, caught up in a whirlwind romance and getting married far quicker than her mother was proud to admit. When he did his term, he retired, and much to her reluctance, he came back home. 

The people here never really took kindly to her mother, nor did they to Lucrezia herself, seeing how much she had taken after her in not only looks, but temperament. How often they would tell her she was just like her mother, words sickly sweet with  _ southern hospitality. _ Young as she was, just nine years old when that sweet chariot had swung low for her dearest mother, she knew the insult hidden behind those words at church gatherings and grocery lines. She knew what they meant when they called her mother a Jezebel in hushed whispers. She knew what that sermon after her mama’s funeral meant, and she would never forget that. She would never forgive. 

This town is full of sinners who hold themselves aloft, as if they’re above the rest of the world. They look down from their high perches, deeming anyone unlike them unworthy and sinful, lacking divinity’s grace. They believe that within their rotting Eden, that they’re protected from the fire and brimstone they claim will claim the world for its sinfulness. 

The lighter held between dainty fingers seems to burn, a conduit of her fury and she sets forth, making her way up those old wooden steps to push open the church’s doors. 

_ There she stands afore a dried fountain centered in the midst of a crossroads - or it would be, were it not for the thorny brambles that block any path but forward. Besides, she wouldn’t go any other way but forward, not when what she seeks lies within the garden’s heart.  _

_ Lucrezia moves around the fountain with long and slow steps, scarlet eyes upon the angel perched atop it. He sits there, beautiful features carved into stone with not two, but four wings stretching behind him. She regards it with curiosity, its presence almost familiar, despite never having crossed paths with it before. As she at last makes her way round the fountain, standing before the only path open, she looks over her shoulder to the angel one last time before she carries on. _

Upon the floor, she sits with her back against the door and eyes closed tight. Curses slip past her lips in heavy breaths, her slight form heaving with each broken sentence. She sits there, nearly a crumpled heap, collecting her senses, gathering herself so that she may stand without falling. 

Moments pass, frustration mounting within like kindling to the fire. Lucrezia’s eyes open, narrowing in a squint as she casts her gaze heavensward. Her breaths come in ragged, smoothing over as she seizes control. She leans forward, hands searching for purchase as they rise along the back of a pew. She grips its back, white-knuckled, and pulls herself to wobbling feet with a sneer twisting her lips, temper flaring.

For a brief moment, in the moonlight filtering in, she sees a four-winged man standing by the pulpit just beneath the golden across hanging on the wall above. Her grip tightens as he blinks out of sight without so much of a trace, and she resolves herself to continue moving forward, taking care to pick the lighter off of the floor before stumbling ahead. Nothing will stop her.

_ Lucrezia gazes upon the large tree ahead of her, feeling it pull upon her, beckoning her closer. She feels its call within her, snaking around her bones like serpentine vines as her feet carry her closer and closer. It stands tall, high above the hedges and brambles, and far healthier than anything around it.  _

_ She wonders if the tree is draining life from the vast garden around it, or if it is the garden that subsists off of the tree? _

_ Bitterness finds itself in the purse of her lips, waving the thoughts of weeds and parasites away as she finds herself at last approaching the giant tree. She gazes upon its branches, strong and heavy with fruit, apples sitting fat and lovely. An odd tree, given its size, one unnatural for what it should be, or what she thinks it should be: a plain apple tree. But should-bes don’t matter, and what does is the reality before her.  _

_ Her eyes run about the tree’s branches, and ‘ere long, a dark serpent can be seen resting on a low branch, with scales lustrous and eyes a gleam of red. He lounges, clearly waiting for her arrival, tail coiling around a large apple that hangs just within her reach. _

_ Without a word spoken nor hiss made, Lucrezia draws nearer to the trunk of the tree with eyes locking onto that of the serpent’s. There is an understanding of what’s to come, a decision to be made, and words mean little here. Her mind is set and in due time, she will do what must be done.  _

_ A small hand rests upon the bark of the tree’s trunk, fingers delicately tracing along as she begins her round along the tree. She pauses, half-obscured by the tree, and she turns, pressing herself against the tree as she peeks out, a single red eye peering up to the serpent. _

_ “Indulge me if you will, serpent,” she says lowly, voice airy and smooth, “ and tell me, just how long have you been here?”  _

_ The serpent meets her half-lidded gaze, white lashes almost grazing rosen cheeks, before answering in a hiss that she understands.  _

_ “Long before you came here, human.” _

_ Her lips purse for but a moment, not wholly satisfied with their answer. “And how long is that?” _

_ Another hiss, low. “Before you were even a glimmer in your mother’s eye.” _

_ She exhales sharply through her nose, her look withering into a glower, thoroughly unamused by their comment. She continues her round, pushing herself off the tree as she sifts through her thoughts, quelling the frustration within. “One would think temptation to be a little kinder, wouldn’t you say?” The words come softly, tickling the ears ever faintly, as if remarking to herself, and he doesn’t answer. It seems he didn’t deem her provocation worthy of a response. “Maybe in giving a more definite answer?” she speaks up, hoping to draw a response from him.  _

_ Nothing. _

_ Why is she biding her time like this?  _

_ “If you aren’t going to answer me, so be it.” She comes to a stop, ceasing just below the branch in which the serpent rests upon. She leans back against the tree, fingers lacing behind her back as she levels a stare to meet the serpent’s own eyes. She holds her chin aloft, features set in determination before her lips part to speak. “I’ve made my decision.”  _

Lucrezia lights the candles one by one, the glow of their flames dancing off the red fabric of the banners hanging behind them. A heavy glower hangs upon her countenance, lashes drooping low and reddened lips pressing into a firm line. She moves toward the fallen pulpit, its splintering and damaged by the force of its fall. The bible that was atop it now lies across the floor, sprawled open with its aged pages hanging loosely. 

Her palms still sting, aching from the force in which she had used to knock it over, but it matters little to her.

_ “Have you now?” He slithers along the branch, coiling tail leaving the apple as he draws nearer.  _

_ “Would I not be here if I didn’t?”  _

She gazes upon the gilt cross, hanging high and thin, as it reflects lights silvery and crismon. How proud it is, untarnished by the world around it, gleaming brightly. It sits, pure, untainted by sin. It’s an icon for this town, their proof that they are like Christ, and in that they will be saved from this world and its wickedness. There is no need to fear the devil for when you have the Lord inside of you. 

Lucrezia spins upon her heels, swift and fluid, with snowy hair whipping about her, eyes now cast over the lines of pews as she stands in a wide stance. She stares at this new sight, never having seen the church like this. How high she is now, standing upon the platform from which Preacher Les delivers his sermons. Truly, if the congregation feels so high when they sit in those old pews, then surely Preacher Les must feel like a prophet himself as he stands above them delivering the good Lord’s message. 

__

_ “Yet you stand before me indecisive.”  _

_ Scarlet eyes narrow in indignation. Her chin dips low, bemusement writ across her mien. “If I was indecisive, as I said, would I not be here?” _

_ “If you were decided, would you have waited this long to claim what is here, waiting to be plucked?” His tail slips along the surface of the apple, shiny and bright, reflecting the light of the blood moon in its smooth surface. It hangs, so full and ripe, waiting for her hand to just reach up to pluck it from its branch.  _

_ “What?” she scoffs. “Is a little conversation not allowed? I merely want to chat a bit, is all.” _

_ The snake regards her with an unreadable look in its eye for a moment, and there is little she can do about the gooseflesh it brings about. As much as she wishes she could deny the prickling flesh and the coiling tension deep within her bosom, she knows that there is a certain fear that she still tries to deny. Her mask here is frail, being weakened by this serpent. _

_ “What is there to fear, human?” _

_ “Nothing.” Lucrezia’s answer comes fast, curt. There is nothing she fears. Nothing she will ever admit.  _

_ “Is it of the unknown? Of what lies beyond the world you know?” He slips, dark and smooth, terribly long body wrapping around the tree. She hears its hiss, her fingers tightly hooking into each other in irritation as he wraps himself around to whisper in her ear. “There is so much beyond that little world of your’s, Lucrezia. To remain will only hold you back. All that needs to be done is to take that little step forward.” _

_ “I know.” Her answers are short now, lids falling shut as she tries to reign in her anger and emotions. Too many words, and she’ll give way to a torrent of emotion.  _

_ “Think of it, Lucrezia. Your dreams will wither and memory become tarnished, eventually forgotten, while they trample upon your grave. Why let them have that power over you?” _

_ “They don’t.” No one has power over her. She is her own master. No one else is. Not Preacher Les. Not the Amos’. Not the gossips at _

_ “But they do. Look at how you remain, bound in place, letting their words restrain you. Don’t you want to be free? I can feel your ire and how you hold your tongue, hide behind that mask of your’s. You can be free, Lucrezia.”  _

_ “I am free.” She is. No one holds her back. No one holds her down. She does what she wants, and what she wants, she gets. Where she pleases, she goes.  _

_...does she? _

_ Is she really any of that? Her tongue wets her lips, brows pressing upwards as his whispers linger in her mind. Lips part, yet no words leave them, lost for words and coherent thoughts.  _

_ Who is she, really? By birth, she was Annabelle Caroline Meilyr, daughter to Priscilla and John Meilyr. By choice, she is Lucrezia Meilyr. She sings radiant arias and dances with grace refined by practice. She is to be a prima donna someday, a position she covets more than any others.  _

_ But that’s not it. What are you, Lucrezia?  _

_ Ambitious. Proud. Strong.  _

_ Ļ̵̣̾i̴̛̛̠̓e̷̺͕̽̈́̓͝ś̵̟̬͇̦̍͐̾.̸̞̩̠̝̀̓ _

_ Cowardly. Unworthy. Weak.  _

_ M̴̭̻͇̙̓ū̸̲̼̟c̸͔̪̐h̷̨̛͒͐̄ ̶̨̘̯̀̐̎͜b̷̩̪̉ě̴̥̺̒̑̽ͅͅṱ̷̯̤͑͠t̴̝̘̗̮͠e̵̛͈͉ŗ̴̩̲̜͆̀̇.̸̲̪̊̎́͑ ̸̦̯̒͗ _

_ “Let yourself be free, Lucrezia. There is a way out. You can leave this town behind in its ashes. You know what you must do.” _

_ Her eyes snap open, alight with fury and flame.  _

_ “You’re right - _

I know what I must do.” 

Lucrezia grips the tall candelabra within her hand so strongly as if she is willing it to break within her grasp. It’s not the candlelight that dances in her eyes, but that of determination and resolution, of wrath like that of a furious god. 

_ The apple sits high, shiny and bright, just within her reach. She pushes herself off the tree, striding over without so much as paying the dark serpent any more mind. He is no longer wanted, now knowing what it is that she truly wants. She reaches up with a willowy arm and snatches the apple from its branch.  _

_ She brings it to her mouth, opening wide, and - _

She shoves the candelabra back into the crimson banner, setting it aflame. She wastes no time in dallying about, picking up the other candelabra, wielding it in her small hands as she uses it to set ablaze the matching banner, the pulpit, the banister, the pews - she makes her rounds, watching as the old church becomes consumed by fire. Yet, she stands, unaffected by the smoke and flames, traversing through unharmed and untouched. Around her is an inferno, fire burning hotter and hotter, like that of which is preached in this very hall. 

Lucrezia stands in the midst of it all, feeling the flames close in around her, and her heart at last has become light, as if purified by the chaos around her. She casts her gaze heavensward, unsure but not caring of just how long she’s been standing here, watching as the ceiling catches fire while faint sounds of yelling ring in the distance outside of the church. 

Her eyes fall close, feeling at peace, a smile upon her lips - 

Knocking brings her to the present, eyes fluttering open with languor as she gasps. With a hand pressed to her chest, she seeks to make sense of the world around her, gathering the reality she is in. 

“Just a moment,” she calls out, voice still thick with sleep. She stands from her chair, smoothing out the skirt of her uniform. Before heading to the door, she checks herself out in the mirror one last time. She fixes a stray lock here and there before giving her cheeks a pat and stepping back to get a more whole view of herself. 

She stands, now clad in uniform of RAD, where its emblem hangs proudly over her shoulder. It fits her well, finely tailored, as expected of such an institution directly sponsored by the Devildom’s royal family. She twists about, as if modeling, watching herself in the mirror before she is satisfied and bounces off to grab her bag. 

A cool smile fixes itself upon her face, the mask settling in before she opens the door. She gives herself a quick nod, an encouragement and reminder that there are things she must tend to now and things to mull over later. Ready at last, her hand grips the door knob, twisting it and opening the door in one languid motion.

“Good morning, Lucifer.” 

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic. Woo! I do have to say that writing other's characters is quite difficult, but I did end up enjoying it.
> 
> I plan to fill this collection with pieces on pining, obsession, romance, flashbacks, maybe a little smut - who knows. 
> 
> At any rate, thank you for reading!


End file.
